


Café Six

by ronans



Category: SKAM (France)
Genre: AU, Angst, Bittersweet, M/M, Memory Loss, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:47:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25519774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ronans/pseuds/ronans
Summary: ‘I’m Eliott,’ he says to the tabletop.‘Eliott,’ the man repeats quietly and his tone sounds like missing. ‘I’m Lucas.’Eliott circles a splinter with his index finger and glances up. ‘Hello, Lucas.’‘What brings you here?’ Lucas asks in a fake posh accent.‘Kismet.’
Relationships: Eliott Demaury/Lucas Lallemant
Comments: 53
Kudos: 158





	Café Six

**Author's Note:**

> a playlist i made for this: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1UggI9JEtOweD903ahnTEi?si=xbVIvLTyT_ixOQ9pzxInTg  
> so i had like this barebones thing written months ago and have finally been able to fill in the gaps.  
> gonna need a lil suspension of disbelief for this one. like i watched memento about 4 years ago and thought hey how can i make this even more angsty but elu and also a sort of everyday scenario. anyway !! enjoy

**January**

He wakes up to a stiff neck and a stream of weak sunlight, clearly having forgotten to shut the curtains the night before.

He feels around on his bedside table to snooze his phone alarm but only comes into contact with a notebook. 

He groans and sits up, finally managing to shut off the incessant buzzing with one hand as he rubs roughly at his eyes with the other. Changing his alarm tone yesterday seems to have been effective.

There’s a quiet patter of raindrops on his window pane as his feet touch cool floorboards. He stares aimlessly at the dribbles of water before his gaze drifts back to his phone on his bedside table. It’s not alone, laying on a slightly crumpled square of paper and next to the notebook he’s touched but doesn’t recognise.

He picks up the paper and smooths the crinkled edges. Two scrawled words in unfamiliar boyish loops:

_Café Six._

Eliott isn’t sure what it means, seeing as there’s no time nor date written down. It briefly occurs to him that he may have arranged to meet the art director there to discuss the end of year exhibition and just forgotten. He chews on his bottom lip and fiddles with the corner of the paper for a moment. Eventually, Eliott places it on his pillow and decides to pick up the notebook. There’s a file tucked just inside the cover, stapled and crisp.

The logo on the front of it doesn’t scare him; he’s had enough doctor's visits in his lifetime that a new letter doesn’t rattle him.

_Eliott Demaury,_

_After suffering severe brain trauma from a car collision on 25/06/19, you developed a rare case of anterograde amnesia, meaning you no longer have the ability to form new memories. In addition, you appear to have lost a significant amount of memories formed after 2016._

_In order to aid your potential long-term recovery and day to day life, you must keep to the routine outlined in your medical booklet and report to your bi-weekly appointments at the surgery and with your therapist. It may also be beneficial to you to keep a journal logging any new information pertaining to your personal life and surroundings._

_At any point, please feel free to contact the surgery or one of your listed contacts if you experience any changes to your condition or mood._

_It is vital that you keep your emergency contact information upon your person at all times to ensure your safety and wellbeing._

_Signed,_

_Dr. A. Rigaud_

Unlike the ones before it, this letter sends him into a tailspin, wondering if it’s some sick joke someone decided to play on him, but no. Unless the person pranking him had been extremely thorough, the date on his phone calendar appears to be more than three years ahead of what he initially believed it to be.

He gets out of bed on shaky legs, feeling like he might throw up. With slightly crazed determination, Eliott runs over what he already knows for sure. He still lives in the same apartment he’s been renting since high school. He’s not twenty one, he’s twenty four. He was about to re-start his second year of uni- _fuck_ , does he even go to university anymore? Probably not.

Eliott lets out a low hum as he crashes back onto his mattress and puts his head between his legs, slow breaths in then out. The spinning doesn’t stop. His back stretches and aches with the uncomfortable position but he can’t bring himself to straighten up just yet. The nausea doesn’t pass- he’s not sure if it ever will.

An unsnoozed alarm chimes and he cracks his bones to shut it off. His bed’s begging him to lie back down and forget everything he’s just read but he fights it and decides to rediscover his apartment instead. 

Across from his bed there’s a familiar cork board he’d put up just before he’d split with Lucille, dotted with reminders and snapshots of friends and family. A note in the middle draws him closer, written in red pen.

_Take your meds._

It’s Lucille’s writing and a flash of dull anger travels down his spine. He’s been bipolar for longer than the segments of life he’s forgotten, he _knows_ he needs to take his fucking meds.

He rips the paper down and tears it to shreds, a hot feeling of shame making a home in the pit of his stomach. Vaguely, he wonders if he’s done this before.

And suddenly his apartment feels like it’s suffocating him, the reminders littered everywhere screaming in cursive, lips bleeding where he’s bitten them too hard.

He doesn’t want to call his parents. He doesn’t want to call Lucille like the damn journal by his bed tells him he should. He doesn’t want to call his friends, if he even has any left. He just wants to escape.

He almost laughs bitterly as he takes his meds because lacking autonomy’s a fucking trip. A reminder beeps on his phone, prompting him to do the exact thing he’s just done and he barely refrains from snapping his phone in half. 

He dresses in blanks in an attempt to blend into his own skin and then pockets his keys and wallet.

A shakily rolled cigarette later, and he’s out the door, gripping at the small note where he’d placed it in his pocket.

Walking through the streets of his hometown feels old and new all at once. How many times has he walked this route and not known the next day? He takes a long drag of his cigarette and turns another corner, praying the smoke will calm the panicked buzz under his skin. He feels like a caged animal, a feral current wanting to propel him out of himself.

Google tells him he’s seconds away from his destination as his cigarette sizzles out on the wet pavement.

The sign is understated, a nothing font on a brown backdrop. A bell tinkles as he pushes open the door and immediately the smell of coffee on the wrong side of cheap envelopes him. He’s in a haze as he approaches the counter, a slight look of familiarity in the barista’s eyes but neither of them acknowledge it (it scares him, the look).

‘A black coffee, please,’ he murmurs, avoiding the barista’s eyes and staring at the endless list of combinations on the board above her head.

‘Of course. That’ll be 2,65€.’

Eliott places his change on the countertop and turns to study his surroundings while he waits. He doesn’t recognise any of the three full tables, nor the two loners, but one of them definitely catches his eye, in a booth pressed against the front window. Eliott can acutely feel the slight rain-damp of his jacket collar as he watches the man watch the slow drizzle outside. Maybe he was supposed to meet this man, not the art director he could have been years late to meet with.

So he does this: once he has his coffee in hand he puts on a mask to forget his forgetting and makes his way over to the table by the window. It’s a low thrum in the air between him and the man that he has to follow.

‘Hi,’ he says, legs almost pressed into the wood of the table from how close he’s standing. The guy tenses infinitesimally and Eliott probably would have done too in his place. He takes a little step back for more distance and then clears his throat. ‘Do you mind if I join you?’

The man glances around the half-empty café, taking in the many free seats. There’s a tiny smile teasing his lips.

‘I don’t see why not.’

‘I’ve just decided I have to talk to a stranger at least once a day,’ he announces, a rush to explain.

‘Just then?’ the guy chuckles.

He nods once, succinctly. ‘Just then.’

The man bites his bottom lip halfway through another smile and then motions for Eliott to sit in the booth opposite.

Eliott looks down the length of his arm, to the tips of the fingers that look like they could stretch an octave.

The booth squeaks when he takes his seat and he wonders what he’s done, bluster draining.

‘I’m Eliott,’ he says to the tabletop.

‘Eliott,’ the man repeats quietly and his tone sounds like _missing_. ‘I’m Lucas.’

Eliott circles a splinter with his index finger and glances up. ‘Hello, Lucas.’

‘What brings you here?’ Lucas asks in a fake posh accent.

‘Kismet,’ Eliott replies with a grin. The corner of Lucas’ mouth quirks up in response.

‘Bold,’ he whispers, wiggling his eyebrows.

‘What do you do, Lucas?’

‘Waiting, mostly.’

‘Which restaurant? I might have to stop by.’

Lucas chuckles and shakes his head. ‘Not that kind of waiting.’

Eliott purses his lips and cocks his head. ‘Mysterious. Surprising.’

He crosses his arms and settles back into his chair, flitting his eyes over Eliott’s features. ‘Is this conversation going the way you’d hoped?’

‘Better.’

Lucas rolls his eyes and smirks. ‘So what do you do, then?’

‘Right now I’m working on an exhibition.’ He doesn’t tack the _I think_ on the end.

Strangely, Lucas’ answering smile looks watery. ‘Oh yeah? What sort of art do you do?’

Eliott blushes slightly and dips his head. He picks up a napkin from the cutlery pot at the end of the table and begins unfolding it. ‘I used to draw the people around me as animals, but now I’m more abstract… maybe.’ He shakes his head and tears at the napkin. It hurts to talk like he’s familiar with himself but he doesn’t know what else to portray. ‘Have you heard of Jackson Pollock?’

Lucas makes a quiet, choked sound in the back of his throat and begins to worry at his lower lip. ‘I think someone mentioned him to me once. It was a while ago.’

Eliott beams. ‘They had taste.’

‘They still do.’

Eliott squints at Lucas, but his face isn’t giving anything away anymore. Lucas huffs out a laugh through his nose under the scrutiny and takes a sip of his coffee. ‘Why did you stop drawing animals?’

Eliott pouts and shrugs. ‘Raccoons don’t get you through college,’ he eventually says with a gentle grin. To his surprise, Lucas laughs like he gets it. Eliott drags his eyes over the planes of Lucas’ face until he settles on his hair and the invisible shield he’s wearing. ‘Do you have a pen?’

Lucas frowns and tilts his head. ‘Uh… I don’t think so.’

‘Luckily I do,’ Eliott replies with a smirk.

Lucas rolls his eyes again and leans back against the vinyl. ‘Typical artist.’

Eliott smiles gently and begins sketching. ‘The great artists of the world always have a muse and a way to _record_ that muse, Lucas.’

Bristly, like his hair, but kind enough to let a stranger sit down across from him. Quick in a subtle way.

‘I never got on with art or literature,’ he comments.

The grin on Eliott’s face stretches and then morphs with his concentration. It’s a simple sketch, willing to let him be distracted, but intricate enough to demand most of his attention.

‘I don’t see you as a mathematician,’ he says as he inks a spike.

‘I’m more into medicine.’ A break as he takes a sip of cold coffee. ‘I think, anyway.’

‘A noble profession,’ Eliott murmurs while he colours in the nose.

‘Shut up,’ Lucas replies with a titter, pushing his now empty cup to the edge of the table. ‘What’re you drawing?’ He leans to try and glimpse at the napkin but Eliott just shifts to hide it.

‘Patience, Lucas,’ he grins, gazing up at him briefly from under his lashes. A small thought bubble takes shape, a little raccoon in the corner watching, _my painting does not come from the easel._

‘At least let me doodle something while I wait.’

Eliott looks up again and cocks his head. ‘So you _do_ draw.’

Lucas shrugs, amused. ‘Stick men on surfboards.’

Like he’s conducting an interview, Eliott prods with faux seriousness. ‘In less than five words describe the driving force behind your surfers.’

‘No comment.’

‘Please comment, Lucas, I need to distract you for two more seconds while I do my finishing touches.’

‘I had a feeling you’d come up with a masterpiece quickly,’ he says softly. The gentleness takes Eliott off guard and his pen stutters over a wrinkle in the napkin. 

‘Here,’ he says, sliding the paper across the table.

Lucas’ expression freezes as his eyes lay on the little drawing. Eliott frowns when Lucas’ hand starts to shake.

‘Are you o-‘

‘I have to go, sorry, Eliott.’

Before he can even begin to protest, Lucas is out of his seat, grabbing the drawing and his coat and rushing out of the café.

He writes ‘Lucas’ on his hand but it smudges in the shower, disappears completely later as he rolls around in blue-eyed plagued sleep.

**February**

He’s making a much needed coffee when his phone starts ringing.

‘Lucille? Why are you calling me?’

The other end of the line’s quiet for a moment before it crackles with a deep inhale. ‘Eliott, call me back after you’ve looked at the book on your bedside table, okay?’

‘What book?’

‘It’ll make sense in a minute.’

She hangs up.

He calls her back half an hour later, bristling with discomfort. 

‘Hey-‘

‘So, what, you’re just going to be my fucking babysitter for the rest of our lives?’

‘Eliott, you need me, let’s not get into this again.’

He stares out of his window at the row of apartments opposite and tries to make sense of it all.

‘We broke up, Lucille.’ He’s very aware he’s given her an opportunity to manipulate his narrative but, surprisingly, she doesn’t.

‘We did… then we got back together and then it fell apart again.’ She sighs and he can hear her fidgeting. ‘Look, your parents reached out to me after you and Lu-‘ she cuts herself off and coughs. More fidgeting. He wonders what he’s missing. ‘Anyway, you have an appointment tomorrow at ten. I need you to write it down, okay? I’ll pick you up in the morning.’

She rattles off the details and Eliott copies them down with an air of hopelessness. He feels like he’s on the verge of a panic attack by the time the call ends.

Over time, his breathing shallows and his brain reattaches itself, eyes following the careful trail of his own handwriting. 

He crumples the note up into a tight ball, bins it along with his information booklet, and crawls back into bed.

*

He’s bone-tired when he wakes up, feeling a subtle blackness blocking his synapses.

The day is his to do as he pleases, but the shower feels like it’s miles away.

There’s some slight confusion when he peels a strange post-it note off his cheek that he must have slept on, but he places it on the bedside table to investigate later and attempts to sit up.

A partial crawl to his wardrobe and he’s feeling around at the bottom for something wearable in a pile of discards. His fingertips brush against something hard and he frowns as he clutches what feels like a frame.

Somehow there’s a layer of dust over the edges of the oak and he draws it closer, blowing on it. It’s a little piece of paper behind thin glass.

_Jtm, Eliott._

Eliott frowns, raking his eyes over the frame. The handwriting is weirdly familiar but in his post-sleep haze he can’t quite place where from.

It hits him in the shower. The _Café Six_ note on his cheek.

He scrambles to get dry and then wraps the towel around his waist.

He feels like a fucking detective as he holds the little rumpled piece of paper up against the picture frame. The almost tick of the dot above both i’s- they match. He doesn’t know what it means, but they _match_.

He closes his eyes as he dresses, hunting inside his brain for clues. Around each corner he comes up blank until he’s snapped out of everything completely by a sharp knock at his door.

‘Lucille…?’

She rakes her eyes over his features. ‘Are you ready?’

‘For what? What are you doing here?’

Lucille clamps her eyes shut and pinches at the bridge of her nose. She looks tired, all sunken skin and prominent cheekbones. The appearance bleeds into her tone. ‘You didn’t write it down.’

‘Write what down?’

She pushes past him and makes her way into the apartment. Eliott follows her, confused, into his bedroom and watches as she swiftly yanks a notebook from his wastebin and grabs a sticky note and pen from his desk.

‘Lucille-‘

‘Please, Eliott,’ she mutters sharply, scribbling on the paper and then slapping it on top of the notebook and placing it on his bedside table. 

_READ ME._

‘I’d tell you to not throw this one away, but I know you won’t remember,’ she says. Eliott’s jaw jumps as he grinds his teeth. He feels completely lost at sea and Lucille seems unwilling to throw him a liferaft. 

He tries to speak again. ‘Luci-’

‘We have to go now or we’ll be late.’

Without another word, she leaves the apartment. He waits for a beat, listening to her boots as they creak down the stairs.

He plucks his bomber jacket from the rack and trails after her.

*

The sky’s just beginning to bruise when he walks out onto his tiny balcony, notebook clutched in a white-knuckled hand. He slumps in the wicker chair he had to shove in sideways just so it would fit and brings his ashtray closer to the chair leg.

Slowly, he watches the sky punch holes in the clouds, smoke from his cigarette lingering in a thin layer of fog. The city woke up a while ago and cars pass below as the exhaust mingles with his murky thoughts.

He doesn’t know why he brought his phone out with him.

 _Mama_ , his phone says.

He hesitates before he picks up.

‘Hi.’

‘Oh good, you’re awake.’

Eliott shuffles in his seat and tracks a car turning into the alley next to his apartment block.

‘Your father and I will be over at twelve, is that okay?’

_I wish I could go back to sleep._

‘Okay.’

‘We could make you lunch? I’ve found this amazing recipe…’

The same car backs out of the alley and speeds off into the depths of Paris. His mother’s voice is a quiet hum along with the traffic.

‘See you,’ he finally says when a pause arrives.

‘I love you.’

The line goes dead and Eliott picks up his pieces to prepare for company.

*

His mother arrives in muted lilacs while his dad’s stone grey. Two teas and a coffee on the table between the couch and his grandfather’s armchair.

‘We spoke with Lucille,’ his mother starts cautiously.

Eliott takes a sip of his drink and appreciates the feeling of it burning his tongue. ‘Okay.’

‘We’ve had this conversation before, Eliott, and I know how much you cherish your independence…’ He narrows his eyes at her suspiciously. Her lips are downturned at the corners. ‘I think it would really help if you moved back in with us; I don’t think you’re coping well on your own.’

‘What?’ he chokes, harshly placing his mug down on the table.

‘Calm down, son,’ his father says timidly, like he’s scared of what Eliott might do.

‘When has saying that ever worked?’ Eliott shoots back, but it feels kind of hollow.

His father runs a liver spotted hand over his face. ‘Fair enough.’

His mother sighs and adjusts herself in her seat, perching on the edge. ‘I- _we_ feel like we’ve given this a true shot and it hasn’t worked, sweetheart. It just hasn’t.’

‘What does that mean,’ Eliott says hoarsely, not even a question.

‘I think we should take the doctors’ advice is what I’m saying. Maybe we should have done it from the beginning, I...’ She breathes out like she’s deflating.

‘It’s hard to know what to do,’ his father supplies.

There’s a long pause everyone and no one wants to fill.

‘I don’t want to just be this,’ Eliott says finally, so quietly he sees his parents strain to hear him.

‘Oh, Eliott, you’re not-‘

‘If I move back in… I’ll just be _this_.’

His mother presses her lips together and averts her gaze as he twists the tip of his index finger against his temple. 

‘Please,’ he breathes.

‘Okay… okay, you can… you can stay here,’ she says, glancing at his father briefly. ‘But we need to change things.’

‘Like what?’ he asks, picking his coffee back up.

‘This isn’t just about you and your wellbeing, Eliott. _We_ need to know you’re going to be alright on your own. And if you’re still refusing assisted living...’

‘I’m in my twenties, Mama.’ Can’t quite push out a specific age.

‘Let us help you, Eli,’ she murmurs and he can tell she’s desperate for _something_ ; she hasn’t called him that since he was twelve.

So he concedes. Of course he does. Allows them to book him in for more appointments he won’t remember, allows them to pencil in more visits to his apartment he’ll forget about, and then he shows them out only a touch happier than when they arrived.

A little while after his parents leave, his phone vibrates with a text.

**_Lucille_** _: This might not mean much, but I really am sorry about yesterday. I shouldn’t have snapped at you, I know it’s difficult for you and I can’t imagine what you’re going through. I let things get on top of me._

 **_Lucille_** _:_ _I love you_

The texts bring with them a mix of emotions. There’s a slight edge of condescension to her words that frustrates him, but the fact that she admitted to something she knew full well he wouldn’t have remembered softens the annoyance. He’s not really sure what to think as he taps out his meagre reply.

_It’s okay._

The message has barely sent off before his phone’s ringing in his palm. It’s an unknown number, he never answers those. But it’s local. And he doesn’t know who he’s left behind and he’s so fucking tired he answers without much hesitation.

‘Hello?’

‘ _You’re okay?_ ’ a male voice asks.

Eliott frowns and pulls the phone away from his ear, double checking the number doesn’t ring a bell before placing it back where he can hear.

‘ _Eliott? You’re okay?’_

‘I-‘ He pauses and flounders for a moment before breathing, ‘I’m okay.’

There’s a small, relieved sigh on the other end of the line before it goes dead.

Simultaneously warmed and shaken, Eliott trails to his bedroom and slumps down on his bed.

He nibbles at his thumbnail, eyeing the (fairly) new _READ ME_ adjourned journal on his bedside table. He’s always been more comfortable expressing himself through drawings and other peoples’ words, he’s not really cut out for journaling. But he thinks back to the letter from his doctor, thinks back to his parents saying _we’ve had this conversation before, Eliott_ , and stands up, grabbing it and moving to sit at his desk.

He leafs through the first few pages, past the doctor’s note and various other meagre information about his condition, until he finally reaches a page with his own handwriting. 

_2nd September 2019_

_Have I lived this day before?_

He’s not sure who he sounds like in that entry, and it doesn’t give too much of his headspace away. There are a few more entries after that one, similarly short and at times monosyllabic. When he reaches a blank page he breathes out slowly and begins to write.

_12th February 2020_

_Mystery number called. Didn’t recognise the voice, they asked if I was okay and then hung up._

He drags the pen from the period and swirls it across the page, bled dry.

***

In the midst of realising his life has been turned completely upside down, Eliott had forgotten his wallet. 

Eliott stares at the counter, fingertips gripping nothing but the little square of paper with the café’s name on.

‘El- Sir?’

‘Excuse me, sorry, I can’t find my wallet.’

A panic flutters his chest as he pats his pockets knowing full well he won’t find anything there. He’s about to hang his head and leave when a voice pipes up from behind him.

‘I’ll get that. And another black coffee, please?’

Eliott’s eyes widen as he turns and takes in the man beside him. He’s wearing a shy smile and a hoodie with _romance_ splashed across the chest.

‘Thank you,’ he murmurs.

The guy waves him off and sinks his teeth into his lower lip as his eyes flit to the ground. ‘Don’t mention it. I, uh,’ he pauses, a flicker of guilt tinging his expression before it’s gone. ‘I think I recognise you from college?’

‘Right…’ Eliott can’t exactly come out with _I definitely would have recognised you too if I remembered college_. He holds out his hand. ‘I’m Eliott.’

‘Lucas,’ he replies, a little like he’s out of breath. His handshake is like a caress.

‘I’m sorry I don’t recognise you,’ he jokes weakly with the best smile he can muster post-panic.

Lucas closes his eyes and shakes his head as if he’s clearing it. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘I’d love to hear how you’re doing, though,’ he says, throwing the ball in Lucas’ court.

‘I always sit at that table if you want to join me?’

Eliott follows Lucas’ gesture to a table in the window which has a full view of Paris in February.

‘Oh, so you’re a VIP.’

Lucas snorts. ‘Well, I’m in here practically every day, I’m surprised they haven’t put a sign up saying that’s my table.’

‘Gotta treat your regulars, right?’ Eliott says, beaming at the barista. Her cheeks colour as she places their coffees down.

‘C’mon,’ Lucas says, tapping Eliott’s arm so lightly he barely feels it.

‘Thank you for inviting me,’ Eliott chuckles once they’re sat.

‘Only the most special people get to sit across from me, you know.’

‘I believe it,’ Eliott replies, nodding. ‘I’m honoured. And thank you for the coffee; I was about to run out and bury myself in embarrassment for the rest of the day.’

‘You’re welcome.’ Lucas smiles for a moment before looking out of the window and studying a couple walking past. 

It should be awkward, really, the silence, but Eliott feels calm. So calm he barely notices as someone stops beside their table.

‘Lucas? What the fuck are you doing?’

Eliott watches as the other boy immediately tenses up, fingers blistering white where they’re clenched around his mug. Eliott looks up at the man next to them, tall with a skateboard tucked under his arm, brow furrowed in worry.

‘Lucas?’

Lucas stares down at the table top, lips pressed tightly together. He’s shaking slightly.

‘I’ll be right back, Eliott,’ he murmurs before shooting up out of his seat and grabbing the other man’s arm, practically dragging him out of the coffee shop. 

He waits a beat, picking at a nail, before standing. He doesn’t want to be nosy, that’s not his intention at all. He follows Lucas out of the café because of the sudden horrible, uneasy feeling in his stomach.

Eliott opens and closes the door to the café slowly, not wanting to trigger the bell, but from the looks of the two men down the street they wouldn’t have noticed if an earthquake opened the ground below them. Eliott stays close to the storefront as he steps closer to them, ready to intervene.

‘...I don’t get why you’re doing this to yourself.’

‘Please, Yann-’

‘How long has this been going on?’ he- Yann- asks, voice low. Eliott presses himself against the wall, some poor attempt at a camouflage. Lucas’ jaw twitches and he’s probably clenching it so hard his teeth could snap. Yann steps back and folds his arms. ‘This is what you’ve been doing when you said you were busy? All this time?’

‘It’s complicated, I can’t help it,’ Lucas hisses, suddenly on the defense. ‘I don’t expect you to understand why, okay? I never asked you to- fuck- I didn’t tell you for a reason.’

‘Even _he_ told you to stay away,’ Yann responds, jabbing a finger in the direction of the café. Eliott feels slightly sick. 

‘And I didn’t want to!’ Lucas practically explodes.

‘Talk to me, Lucas, I’m worried about you,’ Yann pleads. ‘This isn’t healthy.’

‘Oh come _on_ -‘

‘He doesn’t remember you, Lucas! He’s never going to remember you.’ It’s not said unkindly, but the words are harsh and Eliott can feel the tension shift and the hurt they cause. A slow realisation creeps up on him and ice crystallises in his veins.

‘Fuck you, Yann, do you think I don’t know that already?’ Lucas spits, all wobbly syllables on the brink of stuttering. ‘Never go through something alone again, huh? What a joke.’

Yann exhales sharply and runs a hand over the top of his head. ‘God, Lucas, I’m so sorry, I...‘

Eliott watches as Lucas raises a shaking hand to his forehead. Watches as he shudders. Watches as he stares at Yann in despair. Watches as he turns on his heel and storms off down the street without looking back.

On the bus home, Eliott remembers that he never got Lucas’ number.

***

He wakes up to an alarm labelled _Lucas._ He frowns and scans his brain. All he finds there is a guy he used to sit next to in first year Art History, someone who’d asked to borrow a pen once and then left it at that.

Baffled, but not quite enough to care, he eventually follows the subtle trail he’d laid out for himself day after day and makes his way to the café.

The bell rings as he opens the door and he’s immediately engulfed with the scent of freshly baked croissants, cinnamon buns and burnt coffee. The queue isn’t very long and he’s seated in a booth by the window in minutes.

He sits for hours in semi-solitude, draws on napkins and lets his second coffee cool.

***

‘Eliott?’

He looks up, startled. Imane stares down at him, seeming a little concerned.

‘Imane, hey,’ he replies chirpily. ‘Did- was I supposed to meet you here?’

She hitches her backpack up higher on her shoulders and shakes her head. ‘No, I don’t think so... You’re alone?’

Eliott glances over at the empty seat opposite him and then raises an eyebrow. ‘You mean you can’t see him?’

‘That’s not funny,’ she says, lightly hitting his shoulder.

‘No, it’s not,’ he sighs, slumping back in his seat.

‘That might have worked with Daphné, though,’ she says after a pause, attempting a smile.

Eliott grins back. ‘How is she?’

She hesitates for a second and Eliott can tell she knows everything. ‘She’s good. She has a boyfriend she won’t shut up about.’

‘Do I know him?’

She stares for a beat too long and Eliott wonders if he’s having this conversation underwater. ‘Basile? ...I don’t think so.’

Eliott nods slowly and taps his teaspoon against his mug. 

‘I have to go,’ Imane says suddenly.

‘Ah.’

‘I’m due back at university.’

It shouldn’t sting, just the mention of college, but it does, and no matter how many times he might have felt the wound it still hurts like it’s fresh.

She shoots him a small smile and moves to leave.

‘Wait,’ he pushes out. She turns back to him with one eyebrow raised.

‘Is everything okay?’

His leg starts jigging up and down and he slaps his palm against his thigh to try and calm it. 

‘Do you know who Lucas is?’

For a moment, her eyes shine with something like hope. 

‘There’s an alarm on my phone with that name and- I can’t figure out _why_ …’

He’s confused when she visibly deflates. She turns her gaze to the window and watches the people pass by the shop front for a few long seconds. There’s a hint of bitterness in her expression and a toughness in the cut of her jaw, almost as if she wants to say something but can’t.

‘No. I don’t,’ she eventually murmurs, placing her hand on the back of his briefly. ‘I’ll see you soon, Eliott,’ she says with a reserved smile.

Eliott sketches until he runs out of napkins and his fingers begin to cramp.

***

A day of indecision and worry passes in flashes before he finds himself in an unfamiliar café a mere half an hour before closing. The sun’s already gone down when he orders a coffee in frantic stutters, the barista looking concerned but not enough to ask why he’s in the state he is.

Eliott’s foot taps a staccato rhythm against the floorboards as he waits, his index finger drumming a harmony with it on the counter. The barista- _Céline_ , her name badge informs him in overly bright colours- hands him his coffee a little nervously. He nods in thanks and makes his way over to an empty booth by the window.

It captures him, the barely there swirl of foam on the surface of his drink, and he wonders how much longer he has left of his day before he’ll start all over again.

He exhales and reaches for the sugar pot, scooping some in. One spoon. Two spoons. Three, four, five, six-

‘Eliott- Eliott, stop.’

He whips his head up at the new voice, feeling a little crazed. He’s sure it shows on his face like a glowing exclamation mark. It’s a man around his age, hair sticking up in a haphazard sort of quiff with wild, sad eyes.

And it has to be, it _has_ to be him, so he asks. ‘Lucas?’

The man freezes, arm half outstretched towards him with those wide eyes rimmed with dark circles.

‘You… Do you…’

‘Are you Lucas?’ He could have been waiting to ask for days, _weeks_ , why the fuck his alarm blares every morning with that one name but he doesn’t _know_.

Something in the other man’s expression hardens and then softens again in resignation at the second question. He reanimates after a few tense seconds, running slender fingers through his own hair.

‘I’ll get you another coffee,’ the man says lowly.

Eliott stares after him dumbly as he makes his way to the counter. He leaves his lips parted as he waits, heartbeat quickening as he anticipates a variety of outcomes.

Something washes over him that makes his tired heart stop and then restart again, but slower, when Lucas sits down.

He’d got his order right.

Significantly calmer, Eliott peeks over at Lucas from under his lashes, swiping his thumb back and forth against the side of his fresh mug. Though Lucas radiates anxiety and tense angles, Eliott can’t help but feel soothed by his presence.

‘How do I know you?’

Lucas’ cheek moves like he’s biting the inside of it and he avoids Eliott’s gaze.

‘Lucas,’ he repeats. He doesn’t think he’d be this pressed to know on any other day, but he’s gone through so much in the space of a few hours he has to know something concrete.

The other man closes his eyes and then reaches into the pocket of his dark blue bomber jacket. Eliott tracks the motion, watching as Lucas places a wrinkled napkin on the table between them.

It’s a hedgehog. A shakily sketched hedgehog with a raccoon in the background. 

‘When did I do that?’ Eliott murmurs, because it’s undoubtedly one of his drawings, though he hasn’t drawn like _this_ in years. Or maybe he has. Fuck. He quells the spiral before it starts.

‘A few weeks ago.’

‘So… so we met a few weeks ago?’ Even as the words fall from his mouth, he knows it’s a useless question. Lucas wouldn’t be looking at him like that, wouldn’t seem so worn down, if that were the case.

It’s confirmed when he slowly shakes his head. Eliott brushes the corner of the drawing where there’s a small rip with the pad of his thumb.

Lucas opens his mouth to speak, but is interrupted by the barista appearing next to their table.

‘Hey, sorry, guys, but I’m closing up now. I can put your coffee in a takeout cup, if you want?’

Eliott’s eyes drift to the mug in front of him. He’d completely forgotten about it.

‘Uh… no, I’m good, thank you.’

She nods and takes his cup away for him, leaving the two men in their thick silence. Lucas wades through it and breaks it.

‘Do you want to go somewhere with me?’

It’s something about the way Lucas phrases it, though even if he hadn’t asked like that Eliott would have gone with him anyway.

‘Yes.’

Lucas doesn’t look happy, doesn’t quite look sad, just accepts.

‘Come on.’

The night’s frigid when they leave. Eliott has the urge to take his hand but he doesn’t know why.

Lucas doesn’t really speak on the way to wherever they’re going, despite Eliott’s intermittent prompts, and he finally gives up, shuffling behind quietly and taking in the night around them.

But Eliott’s stomach drops when he realises where they’re headed towards. ‘Lucas…’

‘Trust me,’ he replies, reaching back for Eliott’s hand. It should surprise him that he doesn’t hesitate to grip it right back. 

When they reach the gate he’s always known how to break open, Lucas stops.

As if to reassure himself, Lucas asks, ‘ _Do_ you trust me?’

Eliott scans the other man’s expression, but it’s a complete poker face. He inhales and moves his gaze to their joined hands. ‘I do. I don’t know why but I do,’ he says with a ghost of a laugh.

And when he looks up, the blank wall’s cracked and it’s like looking straight at Lucas’ ruptured soul. For a moment, he thinks Lucas might cry. But a second passes and then he’s dropping his hand and jimmying the lock open in the exact way Eliott’s done every single time he’s come here.

The gate swings open with a creak of rust. Lucas takes his hand again and they move forward together into a cocoon of aged trees.

‘Do you know how much time you’ve lost?’ Lucas says into the dark. Involuntary, Eliott grips Lucas’ hand more tightly. He’s not quite sure if he’s shocked by the question or is experiencing relief that it’s finally been asked. Maybe he had an inkling it was coming all along.

‘Three and a half years and counting,’ he replies. He rolls past the growing pit opening up in his stomach. ‘I can imagine I met a lot of people over three years.’

Lucas squeezes his hand right back and continues to lead them through the gnarled branches Eliott knows so well. It’s eerie.

‘You did.’

He almost doesn’t need to ask. Almost.

It sucks up the silence between them and the rustling leaves: ‘Lucas, what were we?’

‘We’re nearly there,’ he says softly instead of answering. Eliott knows they are, he _knows,_ but it doesn’t feel like his safe space right now. It’s like he’s about to plummet off a tightrope and into the unknown.

The tunnel reveals itself from the tree cover, gothic and abandoned after sunset; without the scattered graffiti it would look like no one had been here at all.

Lucas drops his hand and pads across the sparse grass to flop down under a particularly bare tree.

‘Come here,’ Lucas says, and Eliott walks over and joins him like a reflex, threading his fingers through Lucas’ stiff ones and gripping a little too tightly.

The ground is cold beneath his back, even through his layers. Eliott shudders as a particularly bitter breeze whips past them and waits for Lucas to speak, cold hand in cold hand, twined together on top of the damp grass.

‘We would have been together for three years next month.’

It’s like his ears are swallowing razor blades. He clamps his eyes shut and breathes and breathes and breathes. 

‘Three years,’ said like a gust of wind.

‘Yeah.’

Eliott swallows but the lump doesn’t go away. ‘This is…’

His brain leaves him and goes for a stroll amongst the clouds.

‘No one told me.’ That’s the best he can come up with, the only thing his tongue can work to say.

‘We all agreed,’ Lucas says under his breath. ‘...I’m sorry.’

‘I don’t know what to say.’ And he doesn’t. He’s dumbstruck, thinking back over everything he’s found out in such a short space of time. It’s a wonder his brain doesn’t stop strolling and simply explode like a firework.

‘I don’t know what I expected,’ Lucas laughs like a choke. ‘This is a lot.’

Eliott breathes a fraction of a laugh in response and gazes at Lucas’ profile, studies him in a new light and tries to fit the jigsaw together. And he thinks maybe he could have known him, wishes for some sort of jog of his memory, but it doesn’t happen. He’s beautiful, though. He knows that.

‘How are you coping?’

‘Ask me tomorrow,’ Lucas whispers.

_But I can’t._

There’s dead air between them after acknowledging the sick joke everything’s playing out to be. Eliott scrambles to find something, anything, to lighten it, but it’s useless. It just… it all fucking sucks.

‘ _Café Six… Je t’aime, Eliott_ ,’ he finally chants under his breath, eyes closed so he can block everything out and focus.

Lucas’ voice sounds like it’s rolling over shattered glass and everything comes out like a waterfall. ‘I know it’s too much, and I know I should have stayed away- sometimes it _is_ too much, sometimes I can’t bring myself to speak to you at all. But it’s nice to have you... in any way I can. That’s why I gave you the note.’

The large lump returns to settle in Eliott’s throat. The funny thing is, he can imagine doing the exact same thing if he were in Lucas’ position, _saying_ the exact same thing. It stings he can’t figure out if it’s just Lucas, or if a part of Eliott rubbed off on him when they were together. It stings that he doesn’t really know the person next to him. It stings that he’ll probably never get the proper opportunity to know him again.

‘So I always find you,’ Eliott finally responds, tentatively slipping his free hand in his coat pocket to graze his fingers against Lucas’ note like a comfort.

‘Almost every day.’

Eliott frowns. ‘Why don’t I… why don’t I give myself more clues? Why didn’t _you_ give me more clues?’

‘What’s life without a little mystery? I think you might have said that once… Maybe not.’

Eliott just stares until Lucas sighs and squeezes his eyes shut, like he doesn’t want to see the words coming out.

‘I’m someone you just met, Eliott. Technically… so why would you?’

‘I can't imagine wanting to lose you.’

‘Please don’t say that,’ he whispers.

But it’s true. When Eliott’s not crushed and overwhelmed, he can see it so clearly that he wouldn’t want to not know Lucas. And there has to be something to it all if he finds him day after day.

Lucas finally speaks, ‘Yann, my best friend… he thinks I’m torturing myself. But I don’t know how to- I don’t know how to work without you anymore, Eliott, I can’t-‘ he stops with a grunt of frustration. He wishes it felt tragically beautiful, romantic even, but really it just aches.

‘I don’t like this,’ he rasps. ‘It feels like erasing a part of myself, not knowing about you, no one telling me about you, either.’

Lucas clears his throat and makes a little _ah_ sound. Eliott’s head rolls against the grass and then he’s looking at Lucas’ beautiful side profile as he stares into the abyss above.

‘We had our first date in that café.’

Eliott’s lips draw themselves into a quiet smile, readily accepting the change of direction. Or maybe it isn’t one, and Lucas is giving him a gift, a glimpse at the parts of them that had burned away. ‘Yeah?’

Lucas turns to look at Eliott and his smile is just as soft. He nods, hair brushing and moulding with the grass. Then he pouts. ‘Well, our first _real_ date.’

‘What do you mean?’ Eliott asks.

Lucas focuses back on the stars. ‘I think we had a few dates before that but we were both scared. I was with Chloé, you were with Lucille…’

And that sounds like Eliott. Always crawling back to Lucille even when the last solid memories he has of them are them as separates.

‘Where did we have our first kiss?’ Eliott asks, hushed. It has the desired effect, Lucas’ grin coming back with full force.

‘Here.’

‘Ah, so I charmed you back to my safe space and you had no choice but to fall in love with me?’

Lucas rolls his eyes and beams, a little laugh bubbling up from his chest. ‘If that’s what you call ditching a double date and acting like a serial killer before _I_ finally got sick of you and made the first move, then sure.’

Eliott can’t believe he’s laughing but he is and it feels _good_ to laugh with Lucas. But then he ruins it, of course.

‘It worked though, didn’t it?’

‘Yeah…’ Lucas sighs. ‘Yeah, it did.’

‘Lucas?’

‘Hm?’ He shuffles in the grass.

‘Will it hurt… Will it hurt if I kiss you?’

Lucas bites his lip for a second and then moves to grip the lapel of Eliott’s jacket.

‘We’re already hurting, Eliott.’

He wishes that when they kiss a dam will break and unleash every little detail he’s fucking sure he already knows about Lucas. But it doesn’t happen like that. 

The kiss is definitely different and more precious than any of the ones he’s shared with anyone else, but his mind stays horrifically devoid of Lucasisms and of the moments they so clearly shared together. He feels like weeping and Lucas’ cheeks are already wet.

‘I feel like I’m in another universe. Or maybe our old one,’ Lucas breathes against his lips.

‘I wish I could remember it,’ Eliott says, pressing another kiss to his mouth.

Lucas locks his grip in Eliott’s hair and brings him even closer until Eliott’s breath isn’t his own and the wilted flowers in his chest that could have just been present today, or for years, bloom again. 

Although this is all new to him, Lucas makes everything feel familiar. He hates that Lucas has to shoulder their history for the both of them, but he’s willing to share some of the burden at least for today.

‘Is it raining in the other universe?’ Eliott asks, not sure where the question comes from.

Lucas gasps slightly. ‘In our old one, definitely.’

They break apart after what feels like hours, still in each other’s space but lips no longer grazing.

Eliott doesn’t want to sour the mood, but he feels he has to say something into the silence. ‘I was right, Lucas.’

‘Hm?’ 

He wants to smooth out the sudden tense space between Lucas’ eyebrows. He strokes his thumb across his cheek instead.

‘I was right to break up with you.’ Because he can feel it, just knows that that’s what happened. ‘It’s not fair, _this_ isn’t fair.’

Lucas huffs and squeezes Eliott’s fingers a little tighter. He doesn’t respond for a while and Eliott almost stops waiting. But then he sighs again.

‘I disagreed for a long time. I hated that you were telling me what to do, how to react, you doing something to me that was against everything you would want for yourself… but I understand now.’

It’s true; he hates it more than anything when other people make decisions for him, when they speak for him. Lucas closes his eyes for a second.

‘When you did it, you asked me how long it had been going on for…’ Lucas sketches a pattern against Eliott’s skin and starts over. ‘Every time I saw that you didn’t recognise me, that I had to explain who I was to you every single day, stop you from wondering why we were waking up in the same bed... I think a little bit of me died.’

Eliott gulps and feels the telling needles start to poke at his eyes. He blinks and blinks and blinks until they grow more dull.

‘Don’t get me wrong, it’s hell, and sometimes I wish I’d fucking listened to you and completely cut myself off, but-‘ Lucas stops again to draw in a shaky breath. ‘A lot of the time I think it’s worth it.’

‘Fuck,’ Eliott murmurs.

‘I’m probably not making sense,’ Lucas whispers just as gently. ‘I’ve never really told you this much before.’

Eliott takes a moment to hurt for his past and future selves, for not getting to know Lucas all over again in this way. He rubs his thumb back and forth across the skin of Lucas’ hand, copying his earlier soothing motions.

‘What you said earlier… not liking not knowing about me… I think it’s easier this way.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Easier for you, one less thing to have to wake up to every day,’ Lucas says, less than a murmur. And it’s not said bitterly, it’s genuine, and it hurts to hear it.

‘That’s not fair,’ Eliott mutters.

‘It’s difficult to know what’s morally right,’ Lucas titters sadly. Then he shrugs. ‘But maybe telling you now is enough?’

Eliott presses his lips together for a moment, absorbing.

‘I’m so sorry, Lucas.’

‘Hey,’ Lucas says, tone suddenly fierce, eyes blazing. ‘It’s not your fault, okay? It’s shit, but it’s not your fault.’

They breathe shallowly, shoulders touching, gazes locked. Until Lucas stares back at the billions of barely-there lights in the sky.

‘I told you- I’ll keep telling you- I’ll have you in any way I can and it’s enough. You’re always enough.’

Briefly, Eliott wonders if Lucas is admitting this to him, being this vulnerable, just because he knows Eliott won’t remember. The thought’s fleeting, though, and he just lets himself bask in Lucas’ tenderness. He shuffles closer, all his broken pieces moving at once and trying to glue themselves back together.

‘How long can we keep this up?’

‘One day it’ll be too much,’ Lucas croaks. His eyes are glistening when he looks at Eliott. ‘But for now it’s day by day, minute by minute.’

The sentence holds a weight Eliott hates that he can’t fully comprehend the meaning of. But it burrows into his chest and makes his heart beat faster anyway, because he knows Lucas understands.

They’re on the precipice of dawn, where a few lone stars still fight for visibility as the sun prepares to peek over the tops of the trees. The birth of a new month that, really, feels like a death.

‘I don’t want to fall asleep,’ Eliott whispers. He thinks, faintly, they might both be crying.

‘I don’t want you to fall asleep either. I don’t want you to go.’

The hitch of Lucas’ breath on the last word- only a tiny broken hiccup- makes Eliott ache. He presses a hard and slightly desperate kiss to the back of Lucas’ palm and lets their entwined fingers fall back against his chest.

**March**

He wakes up to a stiff neck and a stream of weak sunlight, clearly having forgotten to shut the curtains the night before.

It’s methodical, the way he gets ready for a day free of responsibility, until it’s not. A string of little notes with bigger reminders scattered through his apartment, a revelation of the life he’s now living.

Though he eventually finds himself in a café, staring at a beautiful, beautiful boy in the booth by the window.

‘Is this seat taken?’

And he smiles a gorgeous smile, small but warm, a little sad.

‘No, this seat’s free.’

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!  
> tumblr: cheloueliott


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